Short shots
by Ryder1478
Summary: Short stories about just about anything...
1. Blood Moon Rising

_**A/N: Seeing as me not being able to make a good storyline killed my last story, I think I'll stick to one-shots of... whatever actually...**_

_**This is the first one (duh), but I'll try to mix it up a bit with other things. **_

* * *

On the plains north of the buildings of the Institute of War thousands of men clashed on a battlefield, the cries of thousands mingled with the clash of steel on steel, the whirring of bowstrings and whistle of arrows almost inaudiable within the din. Blood soaked the ground as men fell under the banners of Demacia and Noxus, which shining in the eerie red light of a bloodmoon hanging in the sky.

The greatest of noxian and demacian warriors fought, two lords of the battlefield: One wielding a sword the size of a man, wearing heavy armor in the demacian blue and gold colors, already covered by blood and gore. The other, wearing simularly heavy armor, but made of thick unadorned plates, wielding a giant axe that was already notched where it had hit swords, armor and shields.

"Noxus went too far this time!" The golden and blue armored man shouted, raising his sword to strike down towards the axewielder's shoulder.

"We have done nothing, demacian coward! You betrayed the Institute's conditions!" The hulking giant blocked the sword with his own weapon, snaring the sword, and locking the two soldiers in a contest of strength. The axewielder, a noxian general called Darius, suddenly heaved against the locked weapons, sending his advesary, the demacian commander Garen, tumbling to the ground.

Darius snarled in triumph, leaping into the air, his axe raised above his head, a victorious gleam in his eye. Garen saw the general leaping skyward, and knew he would never escape. Sending a quick apology to his sister, the leader of demacian intelligence, and to the noxian assassin he had come to care for, he took his sword, and stemmed himself up on his knee. A fire burned in his blue eyes, as he struck upwards, yelling one last battlecry with all his might: "DEMACIA!"

His sword struck Darius right under the chestplate as the giant axe descended on his shoulder directly next to the neck. Both warriors fell to the ground, locked in death, blood pouring from them to mingle with that already on the ground, finally proving that they were equals in battle.

* * *

Arlen took the axe on his shield, letting the blow glance off. He threw his weight against the shield, knocking the noxian down. He quickly stabbed downward with his sword, impaling the man, who screamed in agony, blood flowing from the wound in his stomach. Arlen withdrew his sword, only just managing to bring up his shield in time to block the spear of the next enemy. The spear hit the shield, causing it to shake under the impact. Arlen let his shield down to strike, but the man had stepped up, and buried his dagger in Arlen's neck.

Pain burst from the wound, causing the demacian's sight to go red. He felt something hot flow down his neck, and his vision went black.

* * *

Desterius saw the giant axe come down, and felt the triumph along with his comrades. They knew the demacian commander, the only one strong enough to defeat Noxus's Hand, would never escape. The triumph turned to disbelief, then rage, as the demacian sword came up, hitting Darius in the chest. Desterius roared with hate, and charged the demacian line, hoping to catch them off guard. His comrades charged with him. The demacians raised their shields, creating a defensive wall the noxians crashed into, pushing them half a step back from the weight of their numbers.

Desterius felt something crunch into his chainmail, right over the heart. He crumpled and never rose again.

* * *

"Fire!"

Two hundred archers let their bowstrings go, launching just as many arrows into the back of the demacian army. "Ready!" Eren shouted, watching his force set new arrows to their strings. "Draw!" The sound of two hundred shafts scraping against bows could be heard above the din of the battle. "Fire!" Again two hundred arrows flew across the battlefield.

The demacians returned fire with their artillery, sending a single stone launched from a catapult into the contingent of archers, knocking over a dozen of them. "Ready!" Eren kept going with his orders, ignoring the new cries of pain from the wounded. A messenger ran up to him, whispering into his ear: "The Grand General wants concentrated fire into the backlines of their right flank." He showed his right under arm, showing a tattoo given to those acting as messengers as verification.

"Understood. Retarget! Backline of the left flank! Draw!" The men under Eren's command repositioned themselves. "Fi...!" The second stone from the demacian artillery struck right before Erens feet, shattering, a single shard striking him under the chin.

* * *

Nearby within the battle the bloodmoon shone on a imposing sight: two undead fighters, one a towering figure carrying a crude doublehanded waraxe with a shoulderplate and his gauntlets bolted onto him, the other the upper body of a man stiched together mounted on a metal tripod of legs, one hand a black curved blade, the other a pulse canon, stood locked in combat with a dragon with red and gold scales and a man wearing demacian armor and carrying a lance with a jagged blade.

The giant struck slow, heavy strokes at the dragon, continously missing his strikes but holding the dragon at bay and knocking over many surounding soldiers, both friend and foe. Meanwhile the lancebearer evaded the other undead fighter's shots by weaving to and fro, quickly nearing his opponent. As he came level with the noxian executioner, Urgot, he struck a heavy blow with the blade of his lance. The undead only just managed to catch the blow on his own blade, the force almost causing his metal legs to buckle.

"Today you find your truth, abomination!" the demacian warrior, Prince Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth,the Exemplar of Demacia, yelled at the executioner. With those words, he drew back his lance, and struck, piercing Urgot's mechanically supported heart, slaying him instantly.

At the same time, Sion, the undead giant, used his spiked shoulderplate to knock over the dragon, who was standing on her hindlegs trying to lock her jaws around her enemy's throat. She hit the dirt, the strength leaving her body. In a flash of red fire, adding to the eerie red glow on the battlefield, the dragon turned into a blueskinned, armored woman. The juggernaut raised his axe, and brought it down, striking a heavy but glancing blow on the halfdragons leg. The armor and the bone splittered under the heavy axe, shards of the red armor boring themselves into her leg, blood rushing from the wound.

"Shyvana!" The demacian prince launched himself on the giant, striking with all the speed and strength he could muster, driving the undead warrior back from the fallen halfdragon. Then, summoning up the little control he had over magic, he leapt to the skies, stiking the ground with such a forceful blow that the ground around the prince broke, jagged walls rising from the ground, locking him, his enemy and some noxian warriors in an arena.

"Come here, show me you have more courage than your ancestor, the cowardly king!" Sion bellowed at the demacian prince.

Jarvan hefted his lance, the grip and blade were covered in blood, making it slightly slippery. "Ours is but to do..." He muttered, bracing his right leg against the ground, preparing to charge the giant. "AND DIE!" He jumped off the ground in the same moment as Sion raised his axe high. Sion's strike went wide, going just over Jarvan's head, hitting one of the arena's walls. Jarvan struck his lance deep into the glowing ruby that was in the undead's chest. Sion bellowed in pain as thick blood slowly oozed from around the lance. Dropping the giant axe to the ground, he grabbed the haft of Jarvans lance and his arm at once. The lance snapped, leaving the blade in the undead's chest. Sion threw Jarvan against the arena's walls, the glowing ruby pulsating brightly in the bloodmoon's undead giant howled like a demon into the sky, charging the prince, who was struggling to rise. The undead warrior stood over Jarvan, raising both hands over his head.

Jarvan wouldn't escape his fate, he would die like his ancestor, Jarvan the First, whose crown was now Sion's lower jaw.

Suddenly, the giant was ripped off his feet, knocked back and pinned to the arena's wall, crushing two of the six noxian soldiers. A huge bolt, a 50 centimeter shaft of firehardened oak, stuck out of Sion's chest. Jarvan looked up, seeing Shauna Vayne, balancing on one of the arena's walls, her large crossbow in her hands. She quickly slung it on her back, and using the small crosbow mounted on her right forearm, she quickly dispatched the last four noxian soldiers still in the arena. Vayne jumped down next to Jarvan, helping him to his feet.

"Hold fast Jarvan." As one of the member's of Demacia's houses, she was entitled to some familiarity with the prince. "It's not over yet." With that, she disappeared over the walls.

Jarvan let the arena walls crumble to the ground, revealing the battlfield. The two armies had drawn back from each other near the walls, leaving behind a scene of carnage. Bodies of the slain were covering the entire ground, blood covering armor, swords shields and lances.

A cheer went up from the demacians, who saw their prince standing over the bodies of two noxian heroes and a small squad of noxian soldiers. They rushed forward, enveloping the prince in their ranks, and crashing into their opponents again.

* * *

A roar went up umong his comrades, and they charged headfirst at the noxians, passing by the prince. Carcyn suddenly felt something piercing his chainmail at his left side, and went down.

* * *

Arald went down dazed, hit on the helmet by a spearhaft. The demacian line had to fall back slightly, leaving him lying among the dead, blood covering everything. The noxians approached him, one looking right at him, a wicked grin on his face. The noxian raised his sword, ready to bring it down. Suddenly, a spear protruded from his chest, and a demacian soldier, a man Arald didn't know, stood over him, alone in a see of enemies. He drew his sword and struck out, kiling a noxian to his left. He took a spear in his right thigh, but just struck at the next man, hitting his shield with such force it knocked the noxian back. His sword broke on the next mans blade, and the drew the spear out of his thigh, whipping it around his head like a flail, forcing the noxians to back off slightly.

Arald could only ly there and look up at the man, who was bleeding in a dozen places, but still stood tall over him. Three armored demacians came forward, placing themselves between the two soldiers and the noxians, and drawing back with them. Arald and his saviour were hurried off to the infirmary.

* * *

Under the moon's crimson light, the demacian soldiers on the left flank were being forced back under a tide of their own blood. A pool of blood moved toward the demacian line, covering everything. One could only vaguely see the bodies under the sanguine liquid, flooding over bodies and leaving them behind as empty husks. A man rose out of the center of the pool. He wore blood red clothes: a sweeping cloak, boots and trousers. His hair was completely white, and on his fingers were sharpened claws. A bubble of blood floated between his hands, expanding as it drew up more blood from the ground until it floated around him in rings, striking away all projectiles aimed at him.

The man laughed, a shuddering sound that caused the demacian soldiers to shiver behind their shields. At a wave of the man's hand, five of the soldiers crumpled to the ground, blood flowing from them, adding to the blood rings rotating about the crimson robed man.

In the midst of another volley of arrows coming from behind the demacian lines, a single silver bolt struck through the blood encircling the man, striking him on his left upper arm. He screamed in agony, a sound that rent the night. All soldiers drew back from the robed man, the hemomancer known as Vladimir, as the blood floating around him expanded, pushing all the mangled corpses aside, creating a wall. The scream died in the Hemomancer's throat as he saw who had fired at him. A woman with pale skin, wearing a blue and red leather jumpsuit with a red cape and armored boots and gauntlets, stood facing Vladimir. A small silver crossbow was mounted on her right gauntlet, another crossbow, almost as large as the woman, was strapped to her back.

"Night Hunter," Vladimir hissed, his bloodred eyes finding Vayne's. "You wil die for that!"

He shot a barrage of blood at Vayne, who jumped to the side, coming up in a crouch and firing another silver bolt. Vladimir crouched quickly, letting the bolt whizz over his head. He sent out a large wave of blood, hitting Vayne on her right arm, and knocking her to the ground. Vladimir laughed, raising his hands, letting the blood wave shoot down towards the felled vigilante. She rolled to the side and disappeared. Vladimir looked around, letting the wave of blood circle protectively around him. Suddenly Vayne reapeared, holding the large oaken crossbow in her hand, sending out a quick voley of the heavy bolts, tiped with silver and glimmering in the light that fell through the dome of blood, that had the potential to pin someone against a wall. The hemomancer drew blood from the dome, solidifying it into a two meter thick wall of blood. The wall shuddered under the impact, the bolts' tips protruding through the wall. Then one last bolt struck the wall, blasting it to tiny pieces and hitting Vladimir in the left shoulder.

Another scream ripped from the hemomancer's throat. His eyes filled with a burning hatred, he cast the entire dome of blood straight towards Vayne, crushing her under the tides of blood. Vladimir retreated from the battle, his wounds sizzling where the silver bolts had struck him. He was not able to heal those wounds magically, nor was he able to take the bolts out himself, seeing as his magical essence was being destroyed by the silver.

* * *

The assassin watched the woman prowling around the edges of the battle, in the forest south of the plains the armies had collided on. Her eyes glinted in the bloody light, filled with a lust for revenge. She wore a demacian duelist's attire, although one could tell it was of expensive cut. She held a long straight-bladed basket-hilted rapier. He was suprised to find her on the outskirts of the battle, especially in her current clothes. They reflected the red light, unlike his own: He wore dark purple clothes that clung to his body, a blade mounted on his right fore-arm, on the lower edge it was straight to the point, but on the other it had a small spike that extended toward the point. But the most eye-catching thing about his clothes was his cloak. It had the same color as the rest of his clothes, a deep purple and was made of leather. Around his shoulders it turned into seven wide strips of leather, reaching down to his ankles, each strip surmounted with a single blade resembling his arm-blade.

The assassin stepped out of the tree-shadow, two of the blades on his cloak clinking together. The duelist turned, her eyes blazing with hate.

"I'm suprised to see you here. Unlike you to not be in the midst of things." He spoke softly, but his voice carried to her, even over the sounds of the battle that was so close.

"Well," the duelist spat: "I'm not at all suprised to szee thee 'ere, slinking around like tze coward you are!" Her accent slurred her words more than normal in her anger.

The assassin snorted at the insult. "I wouldn't be here if you demacians hadn't betrayed the Institute's conditions."

"Thzahts a lie! Thou have tried to frame us for your crimes! Thou have broken tze pact!"

With that she lunged at the assassin. He brought his blade up, striking the point away from his heart. In the next flurry of blows, it became clear that she was fast as lightning with the rapier, but the assassin's blade was made for close combat, to step into the enemy's weapon range, making their attacks wholly ineffective. He cut his opponent a few times, while she was unable to land a single blow on him.

In a desperate attempt to hit him, she abandoned her attempts at hitting him with the point and struck him with her hilt when he stepped too close for her blade again. At the last moment the man struck the arm to the side, but the hilt still grazed the side of his head, leaving a large bruise, and sending him staggering back. He kept a hold on her arm, pulling her after him, and sending her staggering further. She dug her foot into the soft ground, and reversed her movement, rapierpoint extended toward the assassin's heart. Time seemed to slow down for the duelist, and the assassin looked at her through narrowed eyes. Suddenly his eyes softened, and a glint of something simular to regret could be seen. The point was just an inch from his chest.

In that moment, the man dissappeared, and the duelist felt something heavy land on her back. She was knocked to the ground by the assassin landing on her, and he quickly drove his blade into her neck, just below the skull.

He stood, wiping the blood of on the duelists clothes.

_"__Je suis désolé d'en arriver là, Fiora, ma chère." _With that, the assassin stood up and rushed on.

* * *

"Third company runner first class reporting, Mylady!"

The four people in the command tent of the demacian army turned, then quickly moved to the map table, covered in stones representing diferent units of the army. Two of the men were definately warriors.

One was wielding a long spear with a curious tip. It had three tips, one slightly shorter, with the other two meeting over it to form a tip. just under the spearpoint a demacian banner hung, though in smaller form. He wore heavy leather with armored shoulder pieces, all in the demacian colors of blue and gold. His brown eyes wer constantly vigilant, scanning everything in the tent and what could be seen outside.

The second man wore Demacian Royal Battlearmor, heavy stealplates, engraved with runic wards against magic, also in the gold and blue colors of Demacia. He wore a helmet with a visor open, showing an aged man of about sixty, with a beard and piercing blue eyes. A longsword hung on his hip, the demacian crown engraved on it's hilt. In his left hand he held a diamond shaped shield with the Lightshield coat of arms engraved on it.

The third person was a young woman, blond hair with a pretty face and eyes that changed their color in the torchlight. She wore a breastplate of unadorned steel, a white skirt and steel boots. In her hand she held a magical baton whose ends glowed.

The last figure was the strangest: He was a tall winged gargoyle. His skin was a deep shade of blue, with yellow runes covering his entire body. He had a burly frame, and large arms and hands. He was an imposing figure, but for the friendly twinkle in his eyes, even now, with the cries of the dying echoing across the plains.

"Make your report, soldier!" The young woman ordered.

"Mylady, the line is holding, and the enemy lines have not been breached."

The two warriors and the woman exchanged quick glances. "Continue."

"Our casualties are until now: one of the forward artillery batteries was whiped out, 13 platoons full of footmen are dead or incapacitated, three platoons of archers are dead, one lost its commander, our schocktroops have sustained minimal casualties, only six men dead, the cavalry is still in reserve." The runner took a deap breath. "Garen Crownguard has fallen, slain by Darius, whom he took down with him. Shauna Vayne is also dead, slain by the hemomancer, Vladimir. Fiora Laurent is missing in action. And the team of Quinn and Valor have not yet returned. Prince Jarvan has slain the two undead Urgot and Sion, but Shyvana suffered a great leg wound, she will probably loose it."

"Dismissed, soldier." The young woman's voice faltered for a moment. She turned to the two warriors, speaking to the swordsman.

"My lord, what are your orders? The line will be able to hold for as long as it must, but we have to act if we don't want the noxians to destroy our entire army."

The swordsman, King Jarvan Lightshield the Third, looked at the map.

"We cut the head off of the snake..." he muttered. He looked up. "I will take the cavalry straight through the center. We hit Swain in his command tent, and we hit him hard." He brought his fist down on the table, scattering the small stones.

"My liege," the second warrior spoke. "That is dangerous, we do not know what the Tactician is planning."

"Please, my lord, we can't loose you too." Tears were in the young woman's eyes.

"The time to grief for your brother's death will come, Luxanna, but it is not know. Know we avenge him, and all others who had to fall to those cowards. Tell them to be ready to sound the charge on my command!"

Luxanna bowed, and went to leave. "Luxanna," the king called her back. "Let the light fade, but have it burst forth once more, all the brighter to destroy this shadow of fear and hatred! Galio!" He turned to the gargoyle, who had been standing next to him silently. "Make sure the wounded are safe in the final stages!"

"Yes, my liege." The stone creature replied in a grovely voice.

"Xin, with me."

The king sat on his horse, a jet black mare, armored simularly to him. On his right Xin Zhao was mounted on a rowan, also armored, carrying the king's banner. Behind him the entire heavy cavalry was arrayed in ranks fifty wide and ten deep. Their sergeant rode to the king's left.

Jarvan III spoke to Xin and the sergeant:"Have them form in a wedge, follow me closely through the ranks, then give me room to strike at Swain!"

As the riders reformed under the sergeant's orders, Jarvan faced the men. The crimson light reflected off of the polished shield, creating the illusion that it itself glowed with battlelust. Tall and proud the king seemed again, a young warrior; and rising in his stirrups he cried in a loud voice, more clear than any there had ever heard a mortal man achieve before:

"Riders! We will bring justice here, today! Even though we must go through fire and slaughter! For a red night, and a redder dawn!"

With that he seized a great horn from his banner-bearer, and he blew such a blast upon it that it burst asunder. And straightway all the horns in the host were lifted up in music, and the blowing of the horns of Demacia in that hour was like a storm upon the plain and a thunder in the mountains.

And the king charged, his host following him in a charge straight for the battle, his shield uncovered, shining like an image of the sun in a blazing light, casting off the bloodmoon's light, bathing all around him in pure daylight. His army opened, swinging outwards like a gate, letting the cavalry pass. And the king could hear his men shouting, the entire army taking up the chant:

_Lightshield! Lightshield! Lightshield!_

With a mighty crash, the host of riders hit the noxian line.

* * *

On a hill overlooking the battlefield, two dark figures stood, looking at the gruesome slaughter below them. The larger of the two, a large humanoid figure, wearing a helmet and carrying a jagged blade that seemed to breath in the scent of blood, spoke: "You kave done your part well. This battle will never be forgotten on this world, not in al the ages to come. And the war that will follow... It wil be glorious!"

The second figure, not much more that a whisp of smoke as legs, but with an armored uper body and two blades on his arms, growled in un unearthly voice: "To ignite fear in human hearts is my purpose, it was easy, and will cause far more fear in the time to come."

From the hill the figures could see the great axe come down, the mighty walls of the arena rising and falling, and the dome of blood crashing down.

"The war will be forever now." The tall figure spoke. "The Institute will never be able to reinstate peace now!"

"My work is done here, I will leave now. I have matters to attend to." The dark wisp drifted down the hill and disappeared in the shadow of a tree.

The dark figure could hear a voice rising above the din of slaughter and the cries of the dying, a voice that carried hatred and battlelust, hope and joy. And after the call, he heard the sound of a great horn, answered by five hundred others. And from behind the demacian lines he saw a bright light burst forth, surging toward the noxian line. The cavalry rushed straight through them without slowing down, seemingly unstoppable. From the back of the noxian lines, a cloud of darkness arose, ravens circling , diving in and out of the cloud, challenging the light that the demacians had sprung forth.

The figure laughed, howling like a demon into the night. "This is my masterpiece!"


	2. Of a noble art

A/N: After the carnage I made of the last chapter, this just kind of came to me, don't ask. And It's kinda short... oh well, they're not short stories for nothing.

R&amp;R either way, and enjoy (maybe).

* * *

The Great Hall of the Institute of War was full with champions from all the city states of Valoran. And it was full of noise. So many champions with conflicting interests in one room were bound to try to kill each other. The entire crowd was bickering, yelling and generally causing mayhem.

Only few noticed the large double doors opening suddenly, until they crashed into the walls behind them. In strode a single figure, dressed in a red jacket, a white shirt, a red and black tie, wide black pants, black leather shoes, and a black broad-brimmed hat.

The entire Hall fell silent and parted before him to let him walk to the podium set to one end of the Hall. He reflected on how easy it was to shut up a crowd, even one made up of so powerful individuals as the champions of the League. From the podium he studied those who were there, noticing the missing of the Crownguards and Jarvan the Fourth, prince of Demacia. He shrugged, he'd expected as much, as well as the missing of Swain and that of many unaffiliated champions. However, there were some surprising attendees, such as the entire Du Couteau family, and some of the Shadow Isles residents. As he looked over the heads of the champions, he saw a flash of red trailing along the walls of the large room, seemingly dissolving once he'd focused on it.

_'Aaah,' _he thought. _'There she is.'_

"Ladies and Gentlemen, champions of the League," the man spoke, his voice carrying across the entire hall in the silence. "Welcome. I am Twisted Fate." The speaker paused, as if for dramatic effect. "As you know, you are here because I invited you to learn the noble art. An art, that is one of the best ways to express oneself, and an art that was perfected over many years by many great men and women."

The champions began muttering impatiently, they already knew what he was telling them, and his long speech was starting to get on their nerves. Twisted Fate grinned when he heard them.

"I know many of you can dance _adequately_, but let me demonstrate, how dancing can look, given the time and dedication."

Twisted Fate snapped his fingers, and on the podium an entire orchestra of instruments appeared, waiting to sound. Fate stepped down off the podium, and the crowd parted before him once more, clearing and aisle towards the door. Twisted Fate bowed slightly from the waist, raising his right hand and holding it out toward the doors. _'This is working better than we thought.'_

"If I may, my dear." The crowd gasped, as at the other end of the long aisle a beautiful woman appeared. She had long, black hair that reached down to the small of her back, black eyes and curved red lips. She wore a red dress with matching high heels. But most importantly, she had just appeared out of thin air, right in the middle of all these powerful beings, and none had noticed her. She walked down the corridor of champions, not looking at any of them, except for Twisted Fate, who still stood with his hand outstretched. When she reached him she lightly placed her left hand into it, and he rose, looking her in the eye.

"Of course you may." She smiled at him, and the stepped toward each other. Twisted Fate raised his left hand to the height of the woman's eyes, holding it out slightly, and she placed her right into it. He placed his right hand into the small of her back, and she put her left on his right shoulder-blade, holding the hand vertically. She then leaned into his right arm, so they didn't stand right in front of one another.

Only mere moments after they had placed themselves into position, the orchestra on the podium started playing. The music had a driving rhythm, fast and lively.

Immediately Twisted Fate's mind went blank, then jumped to the motions that were by now ingrained into him. He too a fast step forward, putting pressure against his partner to move her with him and she followed his movement. A short pause. Another step. Another pause. Shift the weight to the back leg, shift it back to the front leg, shift it to the back leg. A pause. A step back, a step to the side, close feet. A pause. He started the sequence again, then again and again, making his movements more complicated with each time, and he moved across the hall, with his partner matching his every movement with one of her own. Twisted Fate could see only his partner, could hear only the music, he didn't see the others moving out of his way, leaving him room to circle freely in the large hall.


	3. A Helping Hand

Graves threw the cigar stump away just as the next round of bullets hit the counter he was taking cover behind. In the remains of the mirror behind the bar he could see the taproom, or what was left of it: most of the tables had been overturned to give the men Graves was fighting cover from his return fire. Not that they helped much against the huge double-barrel shotgun that Graves used. And it had started out so well: He had come to the illegal poker game in one of Piltover's backalleys hoping that it would draw out Twisted. Instead, Aregor Priggs had walked in, followed my six of his henchmen.

He had only been recognized as he sat opposite Priggs in the last round. Immediately the professor had called for his guards and pandemonium had ensued. The men Priggs had with him had immediately opened fire, ignoring the fact that there were still bystanders near Graves. Graves had immediately puled up his shotgun which was leaning next to his chair, as always, and took a snapshot at Priggs, who was already halfway to the door, and had dropped behind the counter.

After a few minutes of gunfire, grenades and high velocity whiskey bottles half of Prigg's men were dead, only for another dozen to storm in through the front door.

_'Dammit. Don't have that many bullets...'_ Just as he had the thought, another round of bulltes hit the counter. _'And they...'_

"...Seem to have an endless supply." A man dropped down next to him. His hat, coat, pants and boots were black, all of them lined with golden trimmings. A single ace was stuck in his three-tipped hat, and his bearded face sported mischievous eyes with a grin to match.

Without a second's hesitation Graves hit the man with a thundering right hook, that seemed to connect straight to the man's jaw. However, the man was unfazed.

"Awww, Malcolm, com'on, that how you greet help?" The man asked, his grin only growing.

"Your's Fate? Always." In a single fluid movement Graves rose, laid his shotgun on the counter, pulled the trigger and dropped down again. One of Prigg's men was hit square in the chest by the slug and was knocked back over two tables. "And the help of you backstabbing bastard is something I most definitely don't want."

"Alright." Fate answered. "How about a peace offering? I can buy you a three minute window, and you try not to kill me next time we meet?" Another rain of bullets hit the bar, this time accompanied by a grenade sailing overhead. With lightning speed Fate grabbed it and tossed it against the counter. Just before it hit the wood the grenade disappeared.

Graves just snorted at him. "I don't believe in second chances, Fate." He waited a second, then rose out of cover again, let losse another shot, and dropped back under cover immediately.

"Well, lets say the cards have been dealt anew." Graves let loose a bark of laughter, but Fate went on: "And anyway, the counter isn't going to hold this out much longer." As if on cue, the next round of bullets hit the counter.

"Do what you want Fate, but I'm not forgiving anything."

"Well then... You should know that they're not in the back alley."

"Bloody amateurs." Graves muttered at that. Fate grinned at him. "Lady Lucky's smiling tonight Malcolm."

With that Fate stood up, raising his arms toward the upturned tables. From his sleeves three decks of tarot cards started to float around his hands. The cards of one deck had a crimson back, another deck a golden back, and the last deck a blue back. The cards started glowing and floating around his entire body, creating intricate patterns of light. And in the entire bar, all the playing cards that had been used for the poker games took to the air, and whirled around the room. They created a virtual whirlwind, setting up a wind and cutting everything they touched. At the same time they effectively blocked both Graves and Fate from view. Graves made a mad rush for the back door. As he passed Fate, he saw his eyes. The pupils and irises had disappeared, and where they had been a purple fire burnt, bright enough to shine through the lights of the cards rotating around him.

* * *

_'Goddamn that joker.' _Fate had been right about Prigg's men not being in the back alley. However, they had closed in around the entire quarter and were now moving in. Graves had had to draw back into an alley only two hundred meters from the bar itself, and had got caught between two teams of Prigg's mercenaries advancing down the alley from both directions. Now he was hiding between two large dumpsters, trying to stay out of sight for as long as possible.

"Next time," Fate's voice came from directly beside him. "I should check exactly where those guys are, and not where they aren't."

Graves didn't even flinch at his sudden apearance. "Figured that out by yourself?"

Fate only grinned again. "Aaaah, Graves, we've handled more and worse than them before. Come on, for old times sake?"

The only answer Graves gave him was a cold stare.

"You know we can't stay here forever Malcolm."

"You know what happens when we start a shootout here Fate."

"Well, since when were you afraid of a good old death or glory scrap in some old back alley? Anyway, I hear Piltover's rooftops are quite nice this time of year."

Graves followed his line of sight and saw an old fire-escape ladder opposite of their hiding place that definately hadn't been there before. Slowly, a grin spread on his face, and Fate thought it was by far worse than the death-stare he had been given only moments before. _'Oh, why not?'_ He started readying his shotgun with one of the biggest shots he had. He quickly stepped out behind the dumpster, lowered his shotgun at the mercenaries coming from the right, and pulled the trigger. The two bullets that were sent out from the twin barrels of his shotgun rotated around a common axis. They hit the first man in the chest, detonating and ripping him and his comrades apart with the sound of a thunderclap. As he moved, he sensed Fate jumping up with him, and hurled around, only to see the dozen men coming down that side of the alley drop dead, a single card lodged in each of their throats.

"Hmph. You need to work on your aim. Let's go."

They ran along the rooftops, Fate's long coat billowing in the stiff breeze that came from the west. They took along the next larger street that they couldn't jump, heading away from the large spire that showed the center of Piltover. Behind them they could hear the alarms from Prigg's mercenaries blaring, slowly closing in on them. And despite the hatred that still burned in Graves for the man that had betrayed him so long ago, the rush of adrenaline excited him, letting him run faster, jump farther.

"Seems like running along rooftops makes it easier to find you."

"Who's scared now, joker?" Fate only gave a dry chuckle in reply, taking the gap of an alley in his stride, landing on the other side, that was two meters farther down, at a run."Oh, by the way, there's some helicopters on the way." By now they'd reached the outskirts of Piltover, the city limits only five hundred meters away.

Graves stopped for a moment, taking in his surroundings. The streets were empty, and the light in the windows were out. 3:00 am tended to be that way. "Down here, into that warehouse." Graves replied, sliding down the next drainpipe. They rushed into the house, running past the large shelves on either side. "Under that cover, keys are in the glove-box." Fate looked at him, raising an eyebrow. As he pulled the cover off, Graves jumped onto the back of the large black pickup.

"They're outside Malcolm."

"What? How? We were there not a minute ago!"

Fate only pointed down the long aisle they'd run down moments before. Graves saw the headlights of at least three vans, mercenaries arrayed around them.

"You've become predictable, Graves!" A voice floated over from the entrance.

Graves turned toward the voice, his hands shaking. He saw the speaker that was built on one of the vans. "Whats the matter Priggs? Too cowardly to come yourself?"

"Where's the back exit?"

"There is none Fate." Graves replied, his voice calm, ignoring the answer that Priggs was sending via the speaker. "And that way isn't an option either." The two took cover behind the pickup, watching the blockade. The men seemed to be content with waiting for their move. _'They must've scouted the warehouse when they found the truck, damn them.'_

"I can get us out of here, but you need to trust me." Graves looked up at Fate, and snorted.

"I did, once, remember, Fate? Look where it got me. I ain't going down without a fight."

With that he hit the small lever that was part of the butt of his shotgun. The two barrels, each capable of firing a 12 inch shotgun shell, morphed together, forming one large barrel, while the magazine, that normally rotated freely behind the barrels, and the ammuntion in it also melded together, forming on giant shell.

"If you shoot, they will too Malcolm. Noone is going to survive this." Fate had stood up onto the back of the pickup, and he stretched his hand out toward Graves. "Trust me Malcolm, take my hand. I can get us out of here."

Graves stood and stared at the hand Fate offered him. _'If only I could... But a trust betrayed is not easily given a second time...' _ Graves looked back towards the entrance. The men arrayed there had started fanning out into the warehouse, readying themselves to advance down the long aisles. Graves hefted his shotgun, and fired. The shel flew straight toward the middle van in the entrance. Even as the recoil pushed back Graves' right shoulder, he took Fates hand with his left. The shot Graves had fired hit the van with an explosion that sent a pillar of flames up to the roof of the warehouse, and even farther on the outside. All the mercenaries were knocked to the ground with the force of the explosion, the van that was hit directly was ripped apart, the other two thrown aside and set on fire. In that moment, Graves was drawn toward Fate, and the two of them left the warehouse even before the shockwave could hit them.

* * *

**A/N: Well, I dunno, didn't quiet come out as I expected or wanted it to... meh. The fact that I had to rewrite it twice didn't exactly hep either, oh well.  
**


	4. Of Ages Long Past

Of Ages Long Past

* * *

The Guardian stood over us, the spire of True Ice that encased his body towering over him, ready to recount his tale.

"It was here that we made our stand against the Watcher's hordes, here that we held the line. We knew they would come out, they could not let us stand here brazeny, challenging them. You stand right where the battle raged, for almost a full day we struggled with our oppressors, willing to give our lives for freedom, and it was barely enough...

* * *

As always the winds were howling through the chasm, sending the temperature to far below freezing point, but the Iceborn that stood awaiting the order to form up were oblivious to the cold, their eyes set on the towering fortress on the other side of the chasm, its buttresses and turrets like jagged rock formations waiting to impale those foolish enought to come too close, the Watcher's sigil hanging above the gate.

Ungard looked out upon the army arrayed against the fortress on the other side of the massive bridge that they had once built in reverance to the very same beings that they were now here to destroy. He and his shieldbrothers woud stand on the front line when everything began. Even though they had been gifted with great magical powers, they were also faster, stronger, and more resilient than they had been before. They wielded great weapons of war, shields embossed with shards of True Ice, axes and maces formed from the ice of the most ancient glaciers in the Freljord. The Avarosan mages, who had completely given themselves to the magic that now flowed through their veins with the liquid ice that replaced their blood, would stay far away from where the melee would ensue, keeping the Watchers themselves at bay.

Ungard watched his men, his brothers. He saw their determination and courage burn like a fire in their eyes. Their eyes, that since their transformation were bright blue, looking to all the world like shards of ice. But behind the brave facade, he could see the anticipation, and the fear. Not the fear of death, but of failing tonight, that when the final hour came, they would not prevail against the evil that waited a mere half-league away, on the other side of the bridge. Ungard's eyes strayed over the bridge. It had been built more than a millenium ago, but it looked as new as it had when it was first built. The magic that the Iceborn builders and the Watchers had poured into the stonework held it in pristine condition. The statues that decorated the massive railings had been tossed over the side in the Avarosan's first assault.

It was when Ungard's gaze drifted over the gates to the Watcher's fortress, that he saw them opening. Without waiting, he grabbed the giant horn that hung from his back, and blew a long, mournful tone on it. The Avarosans rose in answer to the call, turning to face the now-open gates.

* * *

The Gaurdian paused for a moment, staring at the fire that stood between us and him. To my right, the great bear spoke:

"How could mere Iceborn stand against the Frozen Watchers, that were so powerful that they had these great structures built for them. If they were mighty enough to create the Iceborn, how could they not destroy them?"

"Noone knows. I can only speculate that it was because of Avarosa's bow, it was already an ancient relic back then, and it might as well have been older than the Watcher's themselves. That, along with the protection of the Cryophoenix, that embodies all that the Freljord is, must have protected us from the Watcher's attemts to undo their magic."

To my left, my chieftain spoke, her flail swinging slowly in her hand. "The phoenix? you made no mention of her before." He voice was low, barely a growl, that was as threatening as the weapon in her hand.

The Guardian, who I now knew to be Ungard, stared into the distance, his eyes seeing nothing but memory...

* * *

From the open gate a single form emerged. From behind, the rebellion's leader came, Avarosa, her hair as blue as the ice of her bow, which she loosely held in her left hand. She stared out across the bridge, watching the approaching figure. Whoever it was wasn't walking, but standing on a constantly moving platform of ice that carried them forward. Out of the corner of his eye Ungard saw Avarosa stiffen. "Sister," she whispered quietly, her voice full of the pain of betrayal, for had it not been for Lissandra's interference, this war would have been over before it really started, the Watchers already driven off, never to return.

Ungard turned toward the sheer cliff that rose up behind them. There, at the very top of the cliffs, stood the Cryophenix, her wings spread in defiance to the strong winds and harsh blizzards of the northern Freljord, keeping the winds from driving into the chasm from above, and breaking the strongest of the Watcher's magic, holding the destructive powers of the enemy at bay.

"Stand down, underlings of my sister!" A magically enhanced voice carried across the chasm, sending shivers down the spines of all but the bravest soldier's spines. "Neither I, nor our masters have any quarrel with you, but to my sisters, who led you here, will be taken and destroyed for their treachery. Stay however, and you will have forfeited your lives as well."

The witch stood still and waited. Avarosa turned her back on her, looking at those behind her.

"Answer her." She ordered shortly.

Ungard was confused. "My lady, how?"

"Any way you wish. Your answer is not mine to decide."

Ungard turned to his shieldbrothers, and he saw only grim determination in their faces. They would stand to their last, come what may. "Raise the banners!" His voice carried over the entire army, and the ranks parted, letting warriors carying long spears through. Each one of them attached a long banner to their spearpole. It was woven from blue silk, emblazened with a stylized draw bow that pointing downward. As the banners were raised, a single horn began its call, somewhere in the ranks. It was answered, seconds later by another, on the opposite flank. Then Ungard too raised his horn, answering them both, holding the call, as the rest of his men anwered them, their call echoing of the chasm walls, creating the illusion of the sound coming from all sides.

Lissandra, still standing where she had issued her utimatum, witnessed this show of defiance without moving. However, when the horns of the Avarosans finally stopped sounding, she raised her arms, and the gates to the citadel started teeming with beings coming forward. Among them were ranks of Iceborn warriors that remained loyal to the Watchers. With them hordes of groutesque beings moved, some resembling the Watchers themselves, others were beings that hadn't been seen in many hundreds of years: The frost giants of the northern wastes, direwolves from the peaks of the Ironspike Mountains to the east, icewisps from the deeps of this chasm.

"Form the line, shoulder to shoulder, stand together, and make them pay for every single step they take!" Ungard started belowing his orders, his men responding immediately.

"My lady, you should go back." But Avarosa refused to move. She stood next to Ungard, and lifted her bow. An rrow made form True Ice materialised on the string, and she drew it back. Once she reached the corner of her eye, the arrow split into seven pieces along its length. She released, and the shards flew straight into the approaching horde, the arrows staying on course the entire way, not shaken by winds and defying gravity. Avarosa kept the hail of arrows up until the Horde was almost upon them.

"My lady, back, NOW!" Ungard bellowed, and this time, Avarosa drew back, letting one of Ungard's warriors take her place as the Watcher's army crashed into the shieldwall.

* * *

"It was then that we realised what wrath we had brought upon us. The full force of the north was arrayed within the Watcher's citadell, and we needed to fell them all to reach the monsters that sent them against us." The Gaurdians eyes looked at me now, his eyes, that, according to his tale, should have been as blue and clear as ice-shards, were the only things not transparent upon his ghostly face, and were a gold-flecked green, like an emerald inlaid with gold.

"You didn't fight for only your freedom that night," I suddenly realised. "You fought to return to what you once were, you wanted to become human once more."

"Aye," he answered. "And we did, for we never wanted to be that what we were made to be. Noone should live forever, the mind is not made to."

"And yet," the Ursine to my right said, "here you are, an age later."

"Aye, but here I am, of my own free will." Ungard rose high above us, staring of into the distance, remembering that day so long ago. "That day, countless died. I cannot even begin to guess just how many of them were thrown over the side of the bridge, how much blood ran into these ancient stones. And we stood here, for hours, as the hordes of the Watchers charged unrelentlessly, and we would have stood here for hours more, but the the Ice Witch herself decided to join the fray...

* * *

Ungard crashed his warhammer against the Iceborn's breastplate, caving it in and knocking him back and off his feet, never to rise again. The ground was littered with bodies, the stonework covered in blood and gore. So many had already been knocked off the bridge, Iceborn and monsters all the same, their screams and howls could be heard above the din of the battle, seemingly magnifying the howling of the winds through the chasm. A direwolf jumped Ungard, and he struck it a blow with his shield, sending it staggering, only for it to be decapitated by the axe of the man next to him. Overhead, magical bolts were flying to and fro from the two sides, every hit resulting in another corpse sinking to the ground.

A frost giant charged at Ungard. The warhammer crashed against the giant's knee, the breaking bone resounding with a loud _CRACK, _and the giant hit the floor facefirst. As Ungard raised his hammer to bring down on the giant's head, he felt a pull at the back of his neck. He ignored it at first, but it grew stronger, pulling at his clothes, his hair, his hammer, his shield. It grew into a wind that was colder than even the worst freljordan blizzards. It blew back towards the Avarosan mages, drawing the Watchers' army into the waiting clutches of the Avarosans, stumbling off balance. With a piercing shriek, the wind reversed, unleashing the drawn in power in a single shockwave, blasting Iceborn, wolves, giants and other beasts to the ground and over the edge of the bridge. The force was so great that a part of the bridge near the center collapsed, tearing down even more of the Watchers' army.

Ungard looked around at the empty ground before him. If he was not mistaken, the blast had come from the True Ice that was embedden in his shield and hammer, alng with that of al his corades around him, and it had cleared a large part of stonework of all traces of the battle: The corpses were flung backwards, shattered swords and broken spearshafts and cracked shields were thrown after them. Even the blood had been blown away.

A spire of dark ice errupted from the ancient stones, twice as tall as a grown man. The spire burst, hundreds of shards of black ice flying into the Avarosans. A woman with blue skin and a dress and headdress made of the same ice she'd just emerged from. She stood on a platform of ice, and instead of walking forward, the platform moved, seemingly of its own accord.

"Foolish pride! It will be your downfall!" Although the mouth moved, the voice seemed to come from different places all around the abyss.

The Ice Witch kept moving forward, and the aura that emanated from her caused the Avarosans to split before her, clearing a path straight to Avarosa, at the back of the line. However, before she could enter between the Freljordan ranks, Ungard stepped into her way. He raised his hammer and shield, the True Ice of his weapons crackling in the presence of the enchanted ice.

"Heroes" the Ice Witch hissed. "Always so predictable. Very well, you will succumb first!"

She raised her arm, and Ungard felt himself going cold. It started at juncture of his body: his elbows, his knees. He stepped forward, despite the pain coming from the cold. He felt like he was freezing over. The searing agony was too much for him to comprehend. His blood, immune to the harsh cold of the Freljord, was burning as if turning to liquid fire. He raised his hammer, his movements slow, his vision going dark. He could just see his arm it was turning dark blue, as if the Witch's ice was running through his veins.

The Ice Witch stood smirking at Ungard. She was still far out of the Iceborn's reach and he had almost slowed to a stop. When he was completely covered by the darkness under his skin, she spoke with him.

"Now feel my power." She turned toward Avarosa, standing behind her lines, watching, horrified of her sister's power. "Forward!"

And forward Ungard was forced to move. His eyes had filled with black ice, but he could still see, he could feel his movements. He moved faster than he had ever before, the ice that now filled his veins drawing him forward, forcing him toward Avarosa. The Ice Witch was moving next to him, smiling at his helplessness and the lack of reaction from the others around her. Ungard's rage was endless. Being forced to be something he wasn't was bad enough, but being forced to move against his will, getting dragged foward towards his queen, where he knew that he would be forced to strike her down, was far worse. A fire started burning in the depths of his gut. He fueled it with all the emotions he could turn against the Watchers. His want for freedom, his respect for Avarosa, and his love for the Freljord, free and untamed. And the fire Flared, the ice melting against the fierce courage of the northern warrior, who wouldn't give in, even on the verge of death.

With a roar that would have shaken even the greatest fighter on the field of battle, Ungard raised his hammer and gripped it with both hands. He fueled his strike with the same power that had just granted him freedom from the ice. His hammer slammed into the Ice Witch with such force that her armor fractured and she was knocked backwards off of her pedestal. Ungard jumped after her, power coursing through him. He swung at her again, but before his stroke could land, she disintegrated into flakes of snow, which burst apart when the hammer hit them.

Ungard stared around, seeing the surprise in the eyes of his shieldbrothers. Then he turned toward the Watchers' horde.

"CHARGE!" He bellowed, and rushed forward, waiting for noone, not even seeing the army that surged forward in response, and the Avarosans took the ground their mages had cleared in storm, so fast those facing them couldn't even react before the sound of battle resumed in the abyss.

* * *

"I see. It was never Avarosa who defeated the Ice Witch. Ashe will _looove_ that." Sejuani next to me had a wolfish grin that would've scared even Bristle if he were here.

"No, Avarosa never fired a single arrow against her sister. But without her, none of us would be here, nonetheless."

"Well." I spoke up. "At least we know where Olaf's prowess comes from. It seems that the blood of you northerners makes you more powerful than mortal men."

"Aye" The Guardian spoke. "The freljordans have been some of the greatest..."

"Continue the tale, Guardian." The Ursine grumbled. "It isn't good to break off a saga."

"Ah, yes. We drove them back, the loss of their leader had broken the enemy. And when we stood atop the parapets of the Watchers' fortress, we wondered where they were. They had not shown themselves to us, but we could feel their presence. We didn't know what to do, we were warriors, men who were never told how the summon the Watchers. But the cryopheonix gave us the answer. The Watchers were all that sorounded us, in the very stone and ice. And so the mages cast magic that was unprecedented, and has had no repitition to date. They pulled down the castle, and condensed the stones...

* * *

The power that surged from the ranks of magicians put the power of the rune wars to shame. Even the lowliest of warriors who never learned the most basic things of magic felt their essences draw toward the ritual. And the power drew in all the stones and all the ice that held even a trace of the Watchers' essence, and compressed it. When the power finally subsided, a small stone structure stood where there was once a huge castle. It was intricatly carved with wards and scenes of the battle that led up to this occasion. Resting at the center of the stone, was a large crystal, it was the size of a grown man and radiated power. floating around it were six statues, carved with more wards than the foundation of the crystal, and they held the nexus slightly over the stone foundation.

"Finally, it is over." Avarosa sighed.

"Aye, we are finally where we wished to go." Ungard turned to her. Returning to what they were before the Watchers had suited her far better than him: Alabaster skin, eyes bluer than the sky high above them, hair so white even the snow couldn't compete. Ungard however had retained all the scars that had long since healed on his iceborn body.

"And now," Avarosa turned toward Ungard. "Only one thing remains."

They turned around, and walked back toward the other side of the abyss. The cryopheonix Anivia awaited them close to the sheer cliff that marked the end of the bridge.

"We are ready." She told them. Ungard nodded towards her. She spread her wings, and a spire of True Ice errupted from the ground, trapping Ungard's arms and legs. Ungard looked to Avarosa.

"Do it."

Avarosa drew a simple straightbladed dagger from her belt, and marched toward the spire.

"Ungard Hammerfist," she recited. "Henceforth to be known as Ungard the Guardian, Bane of the Watchers, of Your own free will, you shall remain here. May you guard this place, in all eternity. May your soul never find rest, so that we might rest in peace. Guard us, against the return of the Watchers, lest they reclaim what once was theirs." Avarosa stabbed Ungard in the chest, and his body went limp.

* * *

"An interesting tale..." The Ursine mumbled. "What is there to learn from it?"

"Learn from it what you will. Tis a tale from ages long since past and forgotten by all but myself." Ungard told him.

"There is one thing to learn," Sejuani spoke next to me.

"And it's simple: It's never over, there is always hope, one must only find the means for it." Ungard turned his eyes on me.

"Indeed, young one, and even though you are not the first to realize this, it may as well be that you are the most important."

* * *

**A/N: Please, don't mention the long time I take... Just read it and maybe enjoy it... Till... Whenever, actually  
**


	5. Last Whisper

There was blood on his hands. That much was nothing new for the infamous pirate. He had been sailing the Guardian's and Conqueror's Seas for the last twenty years, plundering and burning ships at wanton. The few times that the demacian and noxian navies had caught up to him he had taken to the ensueing battle with a fire in his heart, laughter on his lips and grogg in his stomach. Always the blood had been that of foreign sailors and fighters, or all too often that of his own crew out for mutiny. Now the blood that covered his hands and the front of his gear in scarlet leaked from his own torso. The job was simple, get in, plant the charges, get out a.s.a.p., but had been too important to entrust another with. But he had underestimated the girl's crew. These men, that came from the worst backwaters in Bilgewater, were loyal to the brink of hell and back. It went against everything natural in Bilgewater's shacks and ports: _Loyalty_. The word might've been the worst curse that one could utter on the Blue Flame Islands. _Fear _was so much more effective. But now here he was, leaning against the mast of that misbegotten girl's flagship. It had gone so well, too. He should've known...

* * *

The night was still young when Gangplank hushed through the alley to the side of the shipyard. With the practiced ease of a veteran sailor he uncoiled the rope that was hanging from his shoulder. The heavy grappling iron on it's end clanged against the cobbles. The Scourge's eyes shot upward, scanning the dark alley. Nothing. So he started whirling the iron by the rope, looking up and taking aim.

The iron landed on the slanted roof and started sliding back down. Gangplank felt as one of the iron's pronges snagged onto something. He leaned his weight into the rope, testing the strength of the hold. He started climbing, curling the rope around his shoulders again as he ascended. He reached the third floor window he had noted on one of his reconaissance missions prior to tonight. He waited: Any moment now...

And sure enough: Two men belonging to the girl's came trudging through the alley. Gangplank watched them pass by below. Killing them would have been too easy, but it would have attracted unwanted attention. they wouldn't survive the night anyway, and think about that Gangplank grinned like a wolf staring down a rabbit.

He turned back to the window and broke it open with his cutlass, letting the rope fall inside. The room was dark, a desk pushed carelessly against one wall, crates stacked agianst the other. Gangplank walked out the door, and stood on a catwalk overlooking a hall large enough to fit an entire fleet of warships. The floor was the same mixture of different stones that made up most of Bilgewater's floors. Demacian marble, polished onyx from Noxus, glacial stones from the Freljord, and any other kind of rock or stone that could be plundered and hauled back home. Five long trenches were cut lenghtwise into the floor, leading out of a huge bay door on the far side of the hall. The harbor was out there, the waters held at bay by floodgates. Gangplank could see the outlines of what would become more battleships for the girl's fleet lying in the trenches, along with the demasted form of a ship he knew to be that of that dammed bounty hunter. He would plant explosives in the storage rooms, and set the blackpowder within aflame. The entire shipyard would burn to cinders, and that girl's pride would go up in flames along with it. The Saltwater Scourge's lips formed into a grim smile, his eyes dancing with the joy of death to come. It would end for her tonight.

* * *

Sarah stood on the deck of the Syren, anchored safely offshore from the Bilgewater harbor. She watched the shipyard she had set up as a bait.

"Do you think he'll bite?" Rafen stood next to her, his eyes fixed on the shipyard as well.

"Vermin always bite. But he's too smart to not have a backup plan." She turned around, striding towards the steering wheel. "And it'll be hell for all those in his way. Give the signal! Time to see if this was all worth it."

Rafen smiled at her back. "Oh I should hope so." He drew a conch horn from inside his coat and blew a long tone on it. As the call echoed off the cliffs, the masts started swarming with sailors, readying the sails, and the Syren moved towards the harbor, the heavy hand of destiny weighing down on the captain, but her heart eager and burning with the justice she would deal tonight, the revenge she would take for herself.

* * *

Gangplank slipped down the stairs from the catwalk, careful to not make any loud noises. He eased open a door to a long hallway. According to the plan he'd gotten from one of his informants, the single room on the right was the powder storage. Send it to hell, and the entire shipyard would go with it. Gangplank could see light from below the door, so there were guards inside. The smile that spread on his lips would've sent a wolf runnning for his life. The Scourge drew his first to pistols from his belt, and stepped squarely in front of the door.

He aimed at the lock with his left pistol and fired, blowing the mechanism from the wooden panels. He dropped the gun and drew the next, kicking the door open with a loud bellow.

The room was longer than the hallway from which he'd just stormed, and filled with shelves that were filled to the brim with boxes of blackpowder. By the door three men stood, all armed but taken completely by suprise by the sudden gunfire and the charging pirate in their midst. Gangplank lowered both guns at the nearest man and pulled the triggers. The man was blown back into the first shelf that promptly collapsed on top of him. The other two split up, one drew his cutlass and charged Gangplank, the other ran down the aisle between the blackpowder.

The man charging Gangplank was no challenge: He swung a haphazard strike at Gangplank's head, which he blocked with one of his pistols, then using the other like a club to crack the man's skull.

The second man was gone, there was no way Gangplank would catch him now, and he growled at the shadows that had swallowed his prey.

He dropped his charges between two rows of shelves. He set to work, attaching fuses and placing the payloads in inconspicious places.

He could hear footsteps coming down the hall. At least six men, and by the sound of their equipment, they were well armed. Gangplank rose. He could set the explosives off right now, but sending himself to hell with this shipyard would defeat the intended purpose. So he went the same way that the escaped man had gone, down the aisle toward the back. The workers had refrained from hanging lights here so as to keep the chances of the powder going off suddenly. He stood in the darkness, waiting for whoever would burst through the door.

Noone came in. The steps passed the door, receding down the corridor. A door opened and closed, and the footsteps were gone.

"Close enough is close enough..." Gangplank muttered into his beard. The explosives he'd already primed would be enough to set off the explosion, no use risking himself over something that would change nothing in the long run. He quickly left the room the same way he'd come in.

* * *

"Alright. The men should've scared him enough to get a move on out of there." Rafen reported to Sarah. She stood on the edge of one of the trenches within the shipyard. Her hands were clenched around the handles of her pistols, the masterpieces her mother had made. The moon shone in through the opening toward the bay, and the ivory on the handles shone like liquid silver.

"Good." Sarah's voice was tight with anticipation. For years she had been on the hunt for this marauder, hoping to catch him before someone else managed to bring him down. Now, finally he was in her grasp, and the noose was tightening around his neck. Though he didn't know it yet.

It would have to be done quickly, she thought to herself. If one of the charges was disarmed too slowly, then they would all be blown to hell and back.

The burning fire in her heart had died down, and she steeled her heart for what was to come, facing down the greatest pirate king Valoran had ever seen. She knew well that bloodshed would be unavoidable. She only hoped that most would come from the Scourge himself.

As she had the thought the door to the powder storage burst open. It took Gangplank only a moment to take in the fact that he was surrounded by several dozen armed men, when he already drew two flintlocks from his belt and fired at the two nearest to him. Most of Sarah's men had only now drawn their blades, when the first were already down. And by now Gangplank had drawn his cutlass and another flintlock, which he leveled at a third man, and pulled the trigger. Three men down in only moments.

As Sarah's men charged at the Scourge, he laid about himself with his cutlass, felling two more before he was pushed back against a wall. Rafan started moving toward the melee, but before he even got close, Gangplank broke out of the circle of his attackers. He started running toward the nearest door. Before he could reach the door, and the storage room behind it, a single gunshot cracked through the air, the bullet bringing him down.

* * *

Gangplank awoke leaning against the mast of the Syren. Pain. His vision flickered. There was blood on his hands. For once it was his own, as he clutched his hand to the bullet wound in his side. He looked up as a shadow fell over his face.

"Any last words, pirate?" The girl stood over him. So she had finally bested him. For years their fight across Bilgewater had lasted.

Gangplank's head leaned to the side has he stared up at her. "Well done girl." He said, as he let his head fall forward. "You should be proud. You bested me, but not the way you always wanted." He laughd at that. He knew he'd lost. But he was goning to make her feel as much selfdoubt as was possible.

"I brought you down. That's all that matters." She cocked he gun and aimed it for his head.

Gangplanks eyes lit on a gun that had fallen out of its holster next to him. He recognized the small mark on it's side, even if the girl's men hadn't. He knew what would happen when he pulled that trigger.

"Atleast let me die with a weapon in my hand. I ruled with them, now let me die with them."

Miss Fortune's eyes moved to the pistol lying next to him. "Rafen. Check if it's loaded."

Rafen quickly did. He shook his head after checking the mechanisms. "Give it to him."

Gangplank took the offered weapon, making sure to point the weapon toward the roof. He wasn't going to die alone tonight, their honor would be their downfall. He raised his eyes, meeting the girl's.

"May hellfire rain down on you in the afterlife."

_'How fitting...' _He smirked at her. "Bring the rain." He said quietly, and pulled the trigger. He saw her recognize her mistake in that moment, and yell: "Abandon ship!" as she pulled the trigger of her own pistol.

* * *

Nightly fisherman looked up in suprise at the massive fireball that rose up over the port of Bilgewater. They could've sworn that a ghostly laugh echoed over that waters, claiming the lives of those caught in the inferno.


End file.
